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Authors: W. Michael Gear

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BOOK: The Athena Factor
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“We don't get to see the movie?”
“Sure, it's just that you've got to buy a ticket when it comes to a multiplex near you.” He was watching her, the look evaluative. “Meanwhile, come on. I'll introduce you around. Like everything else, personal security is a small world.”
Yeah, a world that has Hank Abrams squiring a mysterious Arab—one with a penchant for raping women with his eyes.
 
 
Ever since the Gonzales disaster, Hank Abrams had hated walking down halls to his supervisor's office, but here he was again, plodding down a much plusher hallway.
Verele Security's Manhattan headquarters dominated the entire twenty-second floor of the Flatiron Building where Broadway crossed Fifth Avenue. It was a successful company. The offices reflected that and were furnished with expensive decor, nice woodwork on the walls, thick carpeting, and occasional pieces of artwork that gave the place just the right cachet.
Once Hank Abrams had radiated in the attention of his superiors. Now their slightest notice of his existence sent the heebie-jeebies up his backbone. Dear God, why had Verele sent for him? He couldn't be sure, but he was afraid it was because of the very same woman who had ruined his career in the FBI.
A terrible ill feeling had settled on his stomach, heavy like a carry-out fast-food breakfast. The sensation in his too-tight nerves reminded him of the metallic sense of touching a nine-volt battery to his tongue.
He pushed open the frosted glass door to his boss's office and walked up to the glossy ebony desk where Trina, the secretary, held sway. She looked up, a knockout attractive black woman of thirty-five who had the most omniscient eyes of anyone—male or female—that Hank had ever known.
“Verele sent for me.”
“Gotcha, Hank.” She gave a smooth tilt of her head to indicate the door. “He's waiting for you.”
“Thanks.” Hank took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and straightened his tie before he pushed the door open and walked into Verele's lair.
He had been here once before, when he was hired, but the place still set him back. The white carpeting had to be worth two hundred dollars a square yard. It was like walking on air. Whoever had designed the decor of black walnut, polished cherry, mirrors, and chrome had been a genius. It actually
worked, each element complementing the other. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows gave a view up both Broadway and Fifth. Down below, traffic was flowing in slow starts and stops. The lower roofs of Midtown gave way to the upper Manhattan skyline in the hazy distance.
The big desk in the middle of the room was a composite of red cherrywood and chrome, its surface dominated by two computers, a modular communications system, and several telephones. An open laptop rested to one side. In a monstrous chair, upholstered with overstuffed soft maroon leather, sat a very small man.
Verele Yarrow was more than a midget and less than short. He stood four-foot-five-inches tall, his head oversized and nearly bald. Light blue eyes watched the world from a wide face, and the guy's nose was like a round ball. On this day he was dressed in a bluish silver silk suit.
When Hank had first met him, he'd almost made the mistake of judging Verele by his caricaturish looks. Then the man had spoken, and all doubt had vanished. His speech was precise, articulate, and his intellect cut like a hammer-forged Randall blade.
“Good day, Mr. Abrams,” Verele began in his crisply formal way. “I thank you for your prompt arrival.”
“Yes, sir.” Hank felt the butterflies in his stomach.
“I would like to thank you for your excellent attention to the Sheik last night. You did very well in your first stint as a detail leader. The evaluation of your performance is excellent for your initial assignment in the hot seat. By the way, I think you've been informed that the Sheik will require your services again this evening.”
A faint wave of relief washed through him. “Thank you, sir. Yes. My team picks him up at the Ritz-Carlton at six tonight. I understand that I'm to take him to one of the piers in Brooklyn.”
“That is correct. As detail leader, you are to accompany him and his people. Take a small kit with you. Pack light. I'm not sure just how long this detail will take, but plan for several days at a minimum.” The light blue eyes narrowed. “Whatever you see or hear is strictly confidential, do you understand?”
Hank swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.” He winced. “Sir, I am an ex-FBI agent. I wouldn't want … I mean …”
“You will not be required to participate in anything illegal, Hank.” Verele watched him intently. “Our mandate is the protection and safety of our clients. That is our only responsibility. Beyond that, we do not ask, we do not care. You should not be compromised in your service of the Sheik over the next couple of days.” He paused, seeming to look right past Hank's defenses. “Do you have a problem when it comes to not asking and not caring?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Now, about last night. There was a woman?”
The relief was replaced with fear. “Yes, sir. I think I should explain, sir. She approached me. I did nothing to initiate contact.”
“I'm sure that is the case. The Sheik reported that she actually approached him.” A slight smile bent his broad lips. “Thought he was Antonio Banderas? The Sheik was flattered. He is also very interested in the woman.”
“He is?” That caught Hank out of left field.
“You know her.”
“Yes, sir.” He swallowed hard. “She was at the Bureau when I was.”
“We already know a little about her. Now we would like to know more. Tell me about her.” The light blue eyes hardened like marbles. “
All
about her.”
Hank winced. “Yes, sir.” And the story began to pour out of him.
C
hristal and Lymon sat at their usual table in the back of Al's. She glanced sidelong at her boss. He was carefully scraping tamales from their corn husks, his fork peeling the steaming
masa
loose. She hovered over a medium-rare buffalo fillet with mashed sweet potatoes and
wild rice. To drink she had selected a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale while Lymon nursed something called an Alaskan Smoked Porter. The color of it reminded her of the stuff mechanics drained out of engines.
They had only catnapped on the flight back from New York. She had been deposited at her room at just after one yesterday afternoon and would have slept clear through but for an annoying phone call from Tony last night at seven. She'd promised to call him back when her brain functioned again. Then, that morning, she had taken Lymon's call to have lunch at noon. By some not-so-subtle feminine instinct she knew exactly what he wanted to discuss.
“I think it was a combination of things,” she said. “Hank was really on a roll. So was I. It was his first big investigation, and I was the spark plug that gave it combustion. I'd figured out the link that tied the entire Gonzales puzzle together.” She glanced at Lymon. “We were both high on success, and it just kind of happened. Hank was handsome, smart, and full of confidence. Like I was telling Sid that night. Hank listened.”
“And he was married.”
“Yeah, I knew that.” She lifted a weary eyebrow. “Lymon, sometimes that gets lost in the rush, you know? Especially on a long investigation. We were together day in and night out. I knew he wasn't … well, what I'd look for in a man. But he was there.”
“You said he was a smart guy.”
“Yeah. Really smart. I suspect he'd have eventually busted Gonzales without my input. He's got a good head for organization and detail. He's quick, methodical, and orderly. He ran a good operation. We didn't have many screwups in the field because Hank could keep all the balls in the air and know which one to toss up next.”
“Was he the stick-to-it type?”
“More or less. Not really a bulldog, but I had him figured for promotion to special agent in charge within five years. Yeah, he was a real bright-burning candle, and when he looked at you right, those brown eyes would melt you.”
“Is that what happened?”
Christal stared at the square of buffalo steak dangling on her fork. “We'd had a few drinks together just before we went on duty.” A pause. “Well, maybe I had a few more than I should have. I don't normally do that, but we were flushed with success. That was Tuesday; by Friday, we were going to actually make the arrest. Hank had volunteered to change shifts with one of the other guys whose wife was having a baby. Hank asked if I wanted to take that shift with him. You know, just company. I said yeah.”
She chewed thoughtfully as she replayed that night in her head. “We met at a place for a late dinner. It was just past ten. Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was because I wasn't really going to be on duty—just standing in, you know? But I had a martini. I hate vodka. Then I had another. It was fun, Lymon. We were laughing—both of us on top of the world. It was a celebration.”
She attacked the sweet potato. “When we relieved the guys in the van at midnight, we were still giddy. Nothing was happening. Gonzales' place was empty, the house completely dark. One of the guys we worked with had a bad back. He had one of those thin little blue foam pads rolled up on the floor.” She sipped her soda. “It just happened. Him and me in the middle of the night. One minute we were sitting next to each other, watching the screens, and the next we were kissing; then we were on that blue mat.”
She glanced at Lymon, seeing understanding in his eyes. “Would I have screwed him if I'd been stone-cold sober? Yeah, probably. I was attracted to the guy.”
“Did anyone ever figure out how they compromised the van?”
“No. After the photos landed on the director's desk, they searched that van—and I mean thoroughly. They got squat. Whoever had put the camera in had taken it out again. From the resolution it was a very good camera.” She avoided his eyes. “You can see everything. God, how humiliating.”
“And then Hank shows up at the
Night Stalker
premiere in New York with an Arab who is fixed on Sheela like a Brittany spaniel on a pheasant.” Lymon jabbed halfheartedly at his tamales. “If you'll remember, we were sitting
right here when Sid said that Hank had taken a job with Verele Security.”
“Escorting mucky-mucks.”
“Yeah, mostly the hyperrich. There's specialization in this business. Multibillionaires have different concerns than actors do. Their biggest fear is either assassination or kidnapping. Sometimes it's corporate espionage. Their security is based on creating a safe buffer zone. Our job at LBA is tougher. We have to ensure personal privacy and bodily safety for very public people. In a lot of ways, their job is easier. They can build walls.”
“He'd be good at that.”
“Pardon me?”
“Hank Abrams. He'd be good at executive protection. Like I said, he's got a thing for the little stuff. In fact, he's a nut about details. He did things like plot the route we were going to take on an operation. He'd know the nearest hospital, have a list of alternatives, that sort of thing.”
“Then he's a natural for executive protection. Good advancing is what it's all about. If you ever get jumped, have to use your cover-and-evacuate skills, it's already too late. You've screwed up.”
“You can't always predict all the details.”
“You can try.” Lymon paused. “I did some checking. The Arab was Sheik Amud Abdulla. He's a Saudi national who lives in Qatar. He put twenty million into the production company that made
Night Stalker.
The funny thing is, he wasn't going to attend. Then, at the last minute, he flew in.”
“And didn't stay for the movie.”
“Maybe it's just me, but I thought he was just there to see Sheela.”
“Almost like he walked in, got an eyeful, and walked out,” she agreed. “I remember you saying he could drool, but not touch.”
“You were the one who said it was like a livestock auction. What brought that on?”
“He was looking at her like she was a piece of meat.” Christal shivered. “Lymon, I swear, he was looking right through my clothes when I stopped him at the door. He went
from dreamy-eyed to rapacious. He was talking to Hank like I wasn't really there.”
Lymon took a swig of his porter, pursed his lips, and frowned. “I'm going to mention it to Max. He's all wrapped up with the follow-through for the meetings he had on Wall Street. He used the trip for face time with the people who handle Sheela's investments. I think I ought to give him a heads-up.”
“How come?”
“Just in case the good Sheik Abdulla wants to invest in one of Sheela's pictures.”
Christal considered that. “You think ten or twenty million worth of investment would come with strings attached?”
He gave her a guarded look. “It's happened before. Funding for a fuck or two. It's all a weird game, mostly driven by power, by who can control whom. Think of the rush a certain type of man would get knowing that his money gave him control of Sheela Marks, even if just for a night or two. Is that Godlike, or what?”
“Why do people even get involved in this place?”
“Because balancing out the scum you will always find the ones who want to make movies: the artists and creators. They're the myth makers and storytellers—our tribal shamans. You know, the spiritual dreamers with the glow of universes in their eyes. They spin dreamlike fantasies to make people feel better about themselves. They give visions of hope to a society that is glutted with riches but suffering from a poverty of the soul.”
He lifted a lip. “Then you have the parasites. The people in suits. They've figured out ways to make money off of and control the creators, dreamers, and doers. They're the brokers, lawyers, agents, accountants, and shady producers. In Hollywood, if someone has an MBA, count your fingers after you shake hands. Chances are, one of them will be missing.”
She nodded. “I know the type. In my part of the world, they're called Anglo bankers. Somehow anyone who ever went to one for a loan ended up thrown off his land.”
“Speaking of the sharks, how's Tony?”
“The guy's desperate, I guess. He left notes taped to my room door. I'm supposed to call him as soon as I get an off moment.”
“Watch him.”
She laughed at that. “Hey, he's not a Hank Abrams. Not even close. How on earth do I take someone who calls me ‘babe' seriously?”
“He's one of the biggest agents in Hollywood.” Lymon studied her thoughtfully.”With your looks, he's going to offer you a screen test. You know that, don't you?”
“He already has.” She shrugged. “It's a ploy to get me into his bed. Maybe you'd better warn him that the last man I was involved with wasn't happy afterwards.”
“Aren't you just a little curious?”
“About going to bed with Tony? Are you nuts?”
“No. About the screen test.”
She smiled. “Maybe, Lymon, when this is all over. Sure. It would be fun. Just for kicks, you know? But I'm not fooling anyone. I'm not even close to Sheela Marks in caliber. Had I been in her place, those Fox executives would have seen right through me. They'd have laughed me out of the room, and I'd have blown the deal.”
“False modesty doesn't become you.” He smiled, changing the subject. “So, now we've added Pitt and Jolie to the list. Who's next?”
She considered that. “Something's been on my mind, Lymon. I keep coming back to Genesis Athena.”
“I looked at their questionnaire. When I read the questions, they were just questions. Some of them, like the ones about the bathroom, seemed pretty silly.”
“So, why does a company pay out as much as they do to support a Web site full of silly questions?”
“Got me. It's their money.”
“I think,” she said coolly, “that it's time to take the test, Lymon.”
 
 
Sheela took a deep breath and held it as she stood on her cue under the burning set lights that illuminated the wrecked kitchen. All eyes fixed on Manuel de Clerk. The tension in the room was palpable, like a ticking bomb. Sheela tensed, pleading,
Come on, Manny, you can do it this time.
For this scene she wore a short-cropped wig, and her face had been smudged by makeup. Her loose T-shirt was blood smeared and torn to give the slightest glimpse of her right breast. She was standing on a taped X in the ransacked kitchen. The table was turned over, flour had been thrown around, and silverware lay strewn across the countertop behind her. She gripped a rusty hunting knife as though ready to use it.
Across from her Manny de Clerk had stopped on his cue, made the half turn Bernard wanted, but the stern glare he was supposed to give the camera collapsed into a sad convulsion. A sob caught at the bottom of his throat, his mouth puckering.
“Cut!” Bernard called a moment before he let loose with a string of curses. Moans could be heard around the set. Then Bernard came storming out from behind the camera, a fist knotted and shaking as he stomped up to de Clerk, shouting, “God damn it! Get it together!”
“You don't understand!” Manny implored. “Dear God, I just see her. Smiling down at me. That knife in her hand!”
“Yeah, Sheela's got a knife. Remember the scene? She's supposed to chase your ass out of the kitchen with it!”
“No, I see that
woman!
She
cut
me!”
Bernard waved his arms. “That's fucking bullshit, Manny! I read the medical report! She nicked your dick! Ninety percent of the babies in this country get circumcised—and it's a hell of a lot more traumatic than what happened to you!”
“I'd say forty-five percent,” Sheela offered flatly.
“Huh? What?” Bernard turned on her.
“More than half of those babies are girls, and a moderate percentage of boys aren't circumcised for various cultural
reasons.” Sheela tossed the knife up, catching it by the handle—a trick she'd learned in the filming of
Blood Rage.
Manny continued to sob.
“What the hell do I have to do?” Bernard shook his head and lifted his hands imploringly to the lights that hung on the overhead scaffolding.
“Call it for today,” Sheela said wearily. “Get the man some professional help while we shoot the scenes with me and Gene.” She looked across to where de Clerk's double stood off camera. He nodded woodenly as Sheela continued, “Shoot the scenes with de Clerk later. Spot Manny in, and if worse comes to worst, fill it in with CG.”
BOOK: The Athena Factor
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